


Those Born of Destruction

by natcat5



Series: Classpect-talia [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Homestuck
Genre: AU, Colonialism, Historical Hetalia, Imperialism, knowledge of homestuck not necessarily needed, some sensitive themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Knowledge of Homestuck not actually required) </p><p>AU in which each and every Nation is born with a title, a class and an aspect, that tells something of their destiny.</p><p>England and France search the New World for the newborn Nation that has supposedly appeared there, and England wonders what the boy's title will be. </p><p>Inspired by the Sburb title system.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Born of Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> Knowledge of homestuck not needed! 
> 
> Most of the stuff is explained in-story, but if you have any questions about classes and titles after reading feel free to stop by my tumblr. The url is the same as my username.

 He wonders what it will be.

 

That is the primary thought that is pulsing through England’s mind, eyes narrowed in speculation as he follows Finland through the long, endless grass of the New World. This wondrous land, free of the clutter of Europe. Free of the constant butting of heads between old embittered nations. Free of the alliances, the rivalries, the retaliation and the war. A place where one could stretch out his arms without fear of instigating a border dispute or upsetting some yellowbellied monarch. A blank canvas, not yet stained by Europa’s blood and anger and time-rotted corpses. A new world to be painted upon, to be claimed, to be civilized, and to be _his._

 

It doesn’t much bother him that others got here first. France’s tiny little settlements in the North aren’t much to boast about, and Finland and Sweden are already on the retreat. The Netherlands is a more pressing concern, but England wagers he can tread amiably around him for a few years, and then push him out once he has more of a foundation lain. As for Spain, the man is sitting pretty down south, sullenly nursing the wounds England left upon him in their last encounter. It is the decimation of Spain’s fleet that has allowed England the freedom to set foot upon this land, that has given him absolute reign over the North Atlantic, and he knows the Spaniard will resent that forever. He will, undoubtedly, be furious when he hears of England coming here, to this new land, but it is _highly_ improbable that he will make any move northward to try and contest it.

 

No, England can feel the tide of fortune turning. He knows that the luck of the other Nations will soon cease to exist, and it will be _he_ who ultimately lays claim to this land. Fortune is a fickle thing, but, well, England’s aspect is Light, after all.

 

So it’s with reasonable confidence that England follows behind Finland, who is leading them to where he supposedly saw a newborn Nation running freely in the wilderness of this uncivilized land. The English Nation is certain that this boy, whoever he might be, will end up in his care, and he stubbornly ignores France’s presence as he tries to conjure up visions of just _what_ this newborn will be.

 

He knows that the Nation who represented the wild, savage tribes of this land is a woman, and a dying one at that. She has been sickening almost from the moment Spain landed on her shores, and has only been growing more ill and reclusive since all the others began to stake their claim. England always found it strange that the woman didn’t confront them directly. That she didn’t challenge them for attempting to take her land from her, for hurting her people. It has only given him a poorer impression of the tribes living here, and cemented his belief that this backwards, savage people could not yield the type of civilization that birthed proper Nations.

  

But now, with this news of a newborn, England is forced to reconsider his previous conclusion. Nations may die by others’ hands, destroyed and conquered with their people eradicated, but Nations could also die by birth. By the subversion of culture into a new one. That was how England was born; the death of his mother. She was sick when he was born, and became only sicker as he grew, until there was nothing left but the fairies and secretly whispered pagan traditions that she had left him.

 

So England considers the possibility that this newborn has caused the Nation of the savages to realize her own fate. To recognize that her world is ending, and that the Europeans are indeed going to create a New World here, without her in it. And that is why she hides; that is why she is passive. No one is more subject to the flow of time and change than they, and when their culture begins to decay and their people disappear, even the strongest Nation is forced to accept the reality of the life going out of their limbs and the flesh falling off of their bones.

England’s mother was much the same, he remembers. When he hung onto the back of her tattered dress and clung to her rotting leg she was always passive. Passive to Rome, passive to Saxony. Resigned, with sunken eyes and skin peeled back over brittle bone. But his brothers and sister told him that before he was born, she was mighty. She was vicious and deadly and fought tooth and nail for her people. For her right to exist. It was the birth of England that sapped her spirit. That convinced her of her own inevitable death.

 

It’s that thought that causes England to feel an immediate kinship for this newborn that he has yet to meet. Perhaps this boy, who has caused the impending death of his own mother, is like him. Perhaps this boy, born out of the destruction of another, is a Prince.

 

The thought sends a pleasant chill down his spine.

 

He supposes that Finland and France are wondering about the newborn’s title as well. Wondering if they’ll be able to stake a claim based on what he is. He can’t imagine that being the case though. The idea of there being Thiefs here, in this new land so wild and free and full of endless resources, is almost laughable, and England can’t imagine that the boy will share that title with France. He supposes it’s possible that the boy is a Mage, like Finland, but is consoled by the fact that Finland has already been soundly defeated here, beaten by the Netherlands, and is unlikely to attempt to stake a claim when faced with both England and France.

 

In any case, England is quite sure that he has the best chance of claiming the boy for his own, even should class and aspect not come into effect. It would certainly help his case, but he knows that sharing a class with someone is not always beneficial, and often, you will see your worst qualities mirrored back at you in another.

 

England is quite proud of his class, as it were. There are others who are insecure in what their classes and aspects detail them to be, but England has become quite comfortable in his title of Prince of Light in the past century or so. When he first became aware of his title, when Rome had asked him for it, he had been frightened by the implications. _Destroyer of fortune_ was an ominous title to hold, and it rang painfully close to home for a young Nation who had killed his mother just by existing.

 

It was Rome who had taught him that the fortune did not necessarily have to be his own. He could destroy the fortune of others for his own benefit. He could stop his brothers from trampling all over him. He could steal away Saxony’s murderous progress. He could change the tide and obliterate the luck that had made the empires of the day what they were.

 

And then, from the ashes, from the rubble, from the ruins, he could _create._ Because it was destruction that bred creation, Rome had said. The washing away of the old that brought forth the new. England would destroy, yes, and then he would create. He would create, and he would own, and he would _rule._

His title alternatively means, _destroys through fortune,_ and England has held true to that as well, this past century or so. His vast amounts of fortune and fortitude have allowed him to destroy Spain’s armada and take control of the seas, as he was always meant to do. His brothers barely constitute a tangible threat anymore, and France, while a constant thorn in his side, is nowhere near capable of defeating him.

He is a _Prince,_ and he is meant to rule this world, he knows. And to that end, he knows that this land, and the newborn Nation it yielded, is also meant to be his.

 

When they find the little boy, they make a poor attempt to not startle him off, crowding in behind a bush and whispering arguments over who has the best claim and who is most qualified to approach him. Finland, having led them to their goal, gives them a tired, somewhat amused look, before turning and walking away, returning to the ruins of his own slice of the new world. He turns his back to England and France easily, and the former marvels at how soft Finland has grown over the centuries.

 

Or perhaps, England muses, it is because Finland’s aspect is Blood, the aspect of bonds, which gives him an uncanny ability to know who his enemies are, who his friends are, and who are neutral parties he needn’t worry about too much.  

 

Regardless, it is France and England who remain, glaring at each other while crouched in the fauna, watching the small, blonde-haired child who is barely visible in the long grass up ahead. England can only see the top of his head, and small glimpses of a white gown, but he can sense the boy’s aura, the tingle of energy that identifies him as more than human. The hum is strong, and England’s stomach flips with butterflies of excitement.

 

The boy appears to be able to sense them as well, because he stills for a second, and then turns jerkily in their direction. Both France and England freeze, and watch as the boy steps out of the long grass, fully visible to them for the first time.

 

His face is round with youth, his hair is golden and windswept, and his eyes are the sky. There is something mighty in the boy’s tiny frame, something infinite in his eyes, and England hears France murmur to himself in French, his eyes glinting with interest and want. The sight angers England, and spurs him into action. He cannot, under any circumstance, allow this child to fall into France’s hands. Not when the boy is so clearly meant to be _his._

 

England stands up, revealing himself to the newborn, who startles slightly at his sudden appearance before blinking a few times and tilting his head inquisitively. His eyes are still deep and endless, but they are more childlike now. They sparkle with curiousity, with innocence, with something painfully fresh and new and unstained.

 

A Nation untouched by others. Completely isolated. Never having felt the pain of want and territorial expansion clawing into him. Never having been attacked, harassed, and captured by others. Never touched by another Nation. A completely New World. The idea is intoxicating. 

 

Before England can speak, can introduce himself, can make a single move, France has popped up beside him, and is grinning widely.

 

“This is the little Nation?” he purrs in French, eyeing the boy with a familiar hunger, “He is like a star. He glows and hums so brightly my skin is tingling! The treasures of this continent are truly endless.”

 

The boy’s brows furrow with confusion, and England glowers at France, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder and wrenching him around, so that his eyes are no longer fixated on the child.

 

“He’s not gold for you to plunder from the soil,” he growls in the common tongue, the Earth’s language, the only language that this newborn will know, “Don’t speak of him as such. He’s a Nation, like us. We should treat him accordingly.”

 

France’s eyes narrow at England’s choice of language, and his mouth twitches downwards. His eyes shift nervously over to the child, who is watching them with a kind of rapt apprehension, looking curious, but now, cautious.

 

England smirks internally, because France made a mistake just then. He became too comfortable in their ‘camaraderie’ as empires, both seeking to scout out the land for their own share. He forgot that their battle was ongoing, and that the competition for the boy had begun before they even found him. It would be unwise for either of them to start a war here, so far from their armies and their monarchies, so the likely conclusion would have been them dividing up the land of this new world. Compromising, for a time. Splitting and quartering this Nation-boy as they saw fit. The frog had most likely assumed he and England would confer about the child in English and French, languages that a newborn Nation would not know, and make a decision then. Without the boy’s consent. But England doesn’t want to be Spain. He doesn’t want to see the child as only something to be conquered, claimed, and won. Against all odds, he does _not_ want to destroy him.

 

He wants the boy to trust him.

 

So he spoke in what he calls Gaian, the Earth language, immediately setting himself apart from France, who had so callously alienated the boy by speaking a language he did not know. The result is obvious, because now the child looks at Francis with apprehension, and at England with a more speculative, inquisitive gaze.

 

France has noticed of course, noticed what England has pulled. His eyes remain narrowed, angry, but the smile continues to contort his face. He pulls himself away from England’s hand and laughs, turning his eyes back to the startled boy.

 

“Of course! I believe you misinterpreted my meaning,” purrs France in Gaian, his tone silky and smooth as always, “I simply meant that this child is clearly one of a kind. A _wonder._ Something beautiful, to be treasured.”

England sneers at France’s colourful, glamourized words. That disgusting, over the top flattery that is so typical of the French. But France is ignoring him completely now, and is fighting to keep the greedy gleam out of his eye, his face attempting to look kind and friendly to the child.  

 

“Young one, you must forgive you for speaking my language instead of the common tongue,” he says, addressing the wide-eyed newborn for the first time, “I am France, you see, and my culture and domain has spread far and wide across the globe. Of course I assumed you would know my lang-,”

 

“Across the globe?!” splutters England, cutting France off with an incredulous bark of laughter, “Is that what you call the pittance of colonies you have in that wasteland up north? Your widespread _domain_ is all in your head, Frog.”

 

France looks up at him sharply, and his jaw tightens. His smile remains however, and England’s own smirk falters slightly.

 

“Ah yes,” replies France, and his voice still calm, but with a bitingly sharp edge, “It is quite small compared to yours, isn’t it? It’s true that I am not like _you,_ England. I do not trample over other Nations as if they were stepping stools. I do not brutalize my own brothers and rip them apart out of sheer pettiness. I do not invade country after country to pillage their resources and trample their people. No,” and France’s eyes glitter with triumph and England’s own face falls into cold anger because they both saw the boy take a frightened step back-

 

“No,” continues France with a grin, “I am most certainly not an empire like _you._ I am _not_ a Prince. And thank God for that.”

 

England snarls, thoroughly angered by France’s completely hypocritical statements. England may have the bigger empire, but France has done his fair share of pillaging and destruction. He has no right to criticize any action that England takes, particularly because France has always been _jealous_ of the massive success he has had. To turn it around like this, for the purpose of stealing the newborn away to his side….

 

Despicable behavior. An underhanded tactic befitting a Thief.

 

But it seems to have worked. The boy is looking at England nervously, and has inched closer to France, as if expecting the damn frog to protect him from the big, bad, murderous empire.

 

_Damn it!_

“No, child, that’s not true,” tries England, his attempted smile shaky and not convincing at all, “I am not-,”

 

“A Prince?” interrupts France smugly, and England could kill him, he really could. He could slice the man open from cheek to cheek, rip away that infuriating smile and replace it with blood and gore and see how well France could laugh through _that_. But that wouldn’t help his case, would it? The child is already looking at him with fear, any further action would just prove what France is saying. Would push the child away more.

 

Something twists within England’s stomach and he is hit with the sinking realization that he may have already lost.

 

“But you _are_ a Prince, England,” continues France, “One of the destructive classes. Only the Bard is equal to the terror _you_ spread.”

 

The boy flinches and England curses inwardly again. Fuck. _Fuck._ There’s no way he can prevent the child from fearing him. The damage has been done. If he tries to shut France up, he’ll be proving the bastard right in the eyes of the little Nation.

 

He _has_ lost.

 

“So you see child, it is he who does not have your best interest in mind,” continues France, turning back to the boy, and England doesn’t try and stop him. His mouth tastes sour, the wonderful future he envisioned for himself here going up in smoke. He supposes he should have expected it. He’s been alone for so long, it was foolish to assume he could create kin out of this newborn Nation. But he’s always had a knack for seeing things that weren’t there.

 

England falls back into the shadows, and turns his face away as the child turns towards France, who grins triumphantly.

 

“Destroyer class? Prince and…Bard?” repeats the child, his eyes flickering over to England. His bottom lip appears to tremble for a moment, those deep eyes unreadable, but after a few seconds, he turns his gaze back to France.

 

“Yes,” affirms France, looking smug and assured in his own victory, “Those are titles, young one. Every Nation has one. Titles, a class and an aspect, tell something of a Nation’s character and future. For example, Princes, and their counterparts, the Bards, are those whose destinies are based upon destruction.”

 

The child flinches again, and his eyes drift over to England, who is standing silently with fists clenched and jaw tight. Their eyes meet for a second, before England turns away sharply. The boy continues to stare at him, even as he skeptically asks, “Always?”

 

“Always,” affirms France, and he flicks some hair away from his face, taking a step towards the little Nation with a smile, “I myself, do not belong to either of those vile classes. I am a Thief of Time, dear child, which, I assure you, is a much nobler, less volatile title. Now tell me,” his eyes glimmer with that barely suppressed greed again, and he leans down close to the boy, “What is your title?”

 

England doesn’t look up from where he’s scuttle backwards too. He’s too embittered, too hurt, too angry that he let himself hope so much, assume so much. He doesn’t want to hear how wrong he was, he doesn’t want to see France claim the child, victoriously.

 

And yet, he does hear. He hears it clearly when the child, in a small, but firm voice says, “Bard of Hope.”

 

And the self-assured smile drops right off of France’s face and England lifts his head just in time to see the boy, the newborn Nation, trotting towards him with a determined look on his face, not sparing France another glance. England watches in wonder as the child stops in front of him, and places a hand on his arm.

 

“I don’t think it’s really like that- that doesn’t sound like me, all that destruction stuff,” he says, quietly, but with confidence. “I don’t think it sounds like you either. Why don’t _you_ tell me about Princes and…and Bards?”

 

And England knows he’s won.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Titles are tricky outside of the Homestuck universe. Particularly as they're used differently in this AU. For example, France doesn't have powers over Time, so his title of Thief of Time wouldn't be as literal as it would be in sburb. 
> 
> Obviously these titles can be contested. If you want to ask questions or want to argue (civilly) about my choices then stop by my tumblr! I'll tag everything as classpecttalia. 
> 
> And America's title of 'Bard of Hope' will be explored more fully in the next story.


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